


Rolling in the deep

by sirona



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Get Together, Hurt/Comfort, Innuendo, M/M, Minor Violence, Pining, Unresolved Sexual Tension, cocktails
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-11
Updated: 2011-09-11
Packaged: 2017-10-23 15:38:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/252021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirona/pseuds/sirona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock decides it's really the best idea ever to trail a suspect to Manchester's Canal Street and straight into a bar. And of course, once there, covers must be upheld. For prompt #8: Innuendo cocktail names.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rolling in the deep

**Author's Note:**

> I... have no idea what happened here. This was going to be a very short, very silly 'Sherlock being a horrible tease and drinking cocktails in a rather filthy manner and John trying not to combust' thing, and it turned into this. I blame _Paradox_ , a fantastic series set in Manchester that I marathoned last night. Canal Street, I miss you! And of course, trouble follows those two everywhere, we all know that. Femme, you are wonderful and fantastic and I love you! <3 Title from Adelle's song of the same name. Written for [hpfemme_love](http://hpfemme-love.livejournal.com/) Speed Pr0nz.

"Hello," Sherlock says cheerfully (for him), sliding onto the adjacent bar stool and perching those legs of his onto the prop running along the bottom half of the bar. "I'd like a Blow Job, please."

John, standing about two steps to the side of him, wants desperately to brain himself on the nearest column so he can mercifully skip the rest of this fiasco. It doesn't help that watching Sherlock's lips shape around those particular syllables is doing extremely uncomfortable things to his trousers.

He should never have come. Truly, he should have left Sherlock to his own devices as soon as he'd heard the words 'trailing' and 'gay bar', in _Manchester_ , no less, with the whole of Canal Street to tease and excite his imagination. But the suspect is a bit of a loose canon, and they already have two young men in appalling condition at a hospital in London, before the bastard had slipped out of the city for the Gay Capital itself. And let's face it, Sherlock isn't one to wait placidly behind for the man to return to his initial hunting grounds. And John sure as hell wasn't leaving Sherlock to his own devices -- Sherlock might not be gay (or any-sexual at all, as far as John can determine), but he was in just as much danger as anyone else, seeing as he's one of the finest mimickers that John has ever encountered.

The barman winks at Sherlock, giving him a not-so-quick once-over and obviously approving of what he sees. "Yeah, I can do that," he drawls, licking his lips. "Coming right up, luv."

John is horrified to realise that he's barely restraining himself from decking the guy, for nothing more than having the good taste to find Sherlock attractive. This ridiculous crush of his is getting _way_ out of hand.

"John? Would you like a Blow Job as well?" Sherlock enquires sweetly, leaning close to make himself heard over the music and bringing his lips to brush against John's ear in the process.

And yes, all right, John knows he's just been delegated to playing Sherlock's cover, but really, this is a bit too much of a step in the wrong direction. The inseam of his jeans cuts into his half-hard cock brutally, mocking him for his predicament. John notices the barman's watchful eye on the two of them, and rouses himself. It wouldn't do for him to blow their cover just because he can't handle the heat of Sherlock's mouth, the deep rumble of his voice at the shell of his ear, Sherlock's breath teasing the hypersensitive skin of his neck.

"No, thanks," he says as steadily as he can manage, leaning back to look Sherlock in the eye. "I think I'll have a Slippery Nipple instead."

Sherlock-- _shudders_ , it's the only way to describe it, the tremor that travels down his body, his lids lowering to half-obscure those incredible eyes of his, his mouth falling open in a pout that goes straight to John's cock.

"Fuck me," the barman says from somewhere close by, sounding strangled. "Coming right up, mate. On the house, a show like that."

Sherlock is still staring at John like he's never seen him before, and John can practically _see_ the gears turning behind the dark curls falling in disarray around his head. He licks his lower lip nervously, and Sherlock's eyes zoom onto it with the focus of a heat-seeking missile.

"John?" Sherlock says, half-questioning and half-knowing, lips shaping around John's name, that too-sensuous voice of his lingering over the vowels, and suddenly John is quite breathless, scrambling to keep up.

Looking away takes an effort that leaves John shaking, but look away he does, because while he might technically be called a war hero, he's not quite brave enough to find out just where this thing is going, not with the very real possibility that it's going towards a conversation he wants no part of. He likes the flat, likes living with Sherlock, and if the price for his new-found sense of home is never finding out what Sherlock's lips taste like, or whether or not his breath would quicken if John were to place a bite _right there_ on the edge of his jaw -- well, John considers it a bargain, if one he always seems to have to work hard to keep.

He reaches for his drink instead, knocking it back swiftly. It's sweet, almost too much so, and it coats his throat in a way that is just too suggestive for the situation right now. Sherlock is still watching him intently, but he follows his lead and reaches for his shot glass.

"Ah-ah-ah!" the barman says, slapping his fingers lightly with a wink. "You have to do it properly," he adds, nodding towards the far end of the bar where a young ginger-haired man bends over the bar, wrapping his lips around the shotglass and throwing its contents back using his mouth alone.

John feels a little faint. His imagination is quite active, thank you, despite what Sherlock says, and he can see it now, Sherlock leaning down, those plush lips of his slipping over the glass, tongue probing the viscous fluid inside, and Jesus Christ it's too warm in this bar, and if he's not careful he might be in serious danger of hyperventilating. He watches Sherlock watch the young man thoughtfully, eyes slightly narrowed, before he turns and looks consideringly at his own drink.

And then it happens, almost exactly like John had just imagined it, as if in slow motion -- Sherlock's head bends, his lips open, the top of the glass disappears between them, and then he's throwing his head back, baring the long, pale column of his neck, and John is honest-to-god going to _die_ in a minute. Sherlock drops the glass into his hand and licks his reddened lips with every sign of enjoyment.

John excuses himself to the bathroom, pretending not to feel Sherlock's gaze burning the back of his neck all the way round the corner.

He stumbles inside a cubicle, locking the door behind himself and slumping against the tiled wall. He thumps his head back onto it a few times for good measure, trying to will his erection down. This is neither the time nor the place, they have a case, and _damn_ Sherlock for being such an enormous flirt, a heinous tease, what the fuck is John supposed to do with that?!

He's torn between taking care of business now and waiting until he's back at the hotel, but that only reminds him that they're sharing a room as part of their cover, and the memory of Sherlock's endless, pale back as he slips beneath the sheets next to him rises unbidden in his mind, muddling him even further. He's so hard he aches with it, and so heartsick he wants to stab himself in the chest if only it would help. Because Sherlock had been _quite_ clear, that one and only time the question had been raised, and even though John had backtracked admirably, it doesn't mean he's forgotten any of the reasons for asking in the first place.

After what feels like an eternity but is only twelve minutes according to his watch, John unlatches the cubicle and walks purposefully to the sink, running the tap and splashing water over his flushed face. He gropes for a paper towel, but the dispenser by his side is empty. Before he can walk to the one on the other side of the row of sinks, one is waved in front of his face. He takes it and mops the droplets lingering over his skin before he turns to thank the kind soul.

The man is average-looking, unremarkable in every way except for his honey-blond hair, spiked and styled in a fashion to suit someone much younger.

"Thank you," John says blandly, doing his damnedest not to let on that he's found himself face-to-face with Jason Bell, the suspected assailant in both cases. He's not afraid -- he might be shorter than Bell, but he's had plenty of time to get used to the way Sherlock looms over him, and his shoulders are much broader than Bell's slight frame. He wonders how someone looking so innocuous could have taken on the two lads in question, both much bulkier than Bell himself.

And then he feels the shock of a taser to his thigh, and things become much clearer even as they dim around the edges.

For a hopping-busy club, the loos are deserted, which John finds to be just another irony in his life. He considers dimly that he's very likely in for a bit of an ordeal, and only has the wits to hope that Sherlock won't take it too badly that John's the one that got taken under his nose. He doesn't flatter himself that it'll be a huge blow, but there will be considerable damage to Sherlock's ego, that's for certain.

His limbs are still twitching when Bell rams a ball of cloth in his mouth and drags him into the central cubicle, throwing the latch behind them. John tries to get his muscles under control, but it's too soon after the shock, and he knows he has at least another five to eight minutes of immobilisation before he can move effectively. _Fuck_ , he thinks to himself as Bell turns to him with an unhinged glint in his eye, _not another one_. He still wakes up sometimes covered in cold sweat and shaking from the feel of freezing water closing over his head, before he reminds himself where he is, in his own bed, in their flat. He doesn't manage to sleep again on those nights, but at least when he stumbles half-awake down the stairs and into the kitchen, more often than not Sherlock is there bent over something or other under the microscope, and John makes himself a soothing cup of tea, and switches on the telly, and sometime later Sherlock joins him with the last of a packet of chocolate digestives, and John pretends not to notice when Sherlock drifts off, head on John's good shoulder, long legs curled up underneath him. John pretends he doesn't rest his head on Sherlock's curls and doze off, too, peaceful in a way his own bed never encourages.

Sherlock's probably going to shoot the man, with John's gun that he isn't supposed to have brought along, if John doesn't bloody _do something_.

And then the door splinters open, vibrating when it hits Bell in the shoulder, slamming him into the wall. Sherlock stands in the opening, looking pale and terrible, like some sort of avenging angel, and hell, the shot and the subsequent taser must be really kicking in for John to be thinking ridiculous, nonsensical things like that.

"John," Sherlock yells, while a burly bouncer pushes him aside and barges into the tight space, dragging Bell out and holding him still with a massive hand clenched around his bicep. "John, are you all right?"

John tries to spit out the cloth, doesn't quite manage it before Sherlock is swooping down and removing it from his mouth. "Fine," he croaks. "'M fine."

Sherlock doesn't look like he believes him, but he helps John to his feet nonetheless. John is feeling steadier now that Bell is held safely away from him, but leans against the wall gratefully while Sherlock explains who they are, and more importantly who _Bell_ is, and has the club call the police and the police call Lestrade, and things are more or less neatly wrapped up yet again. By the time Bell is taken away and the medics have made certain John is all right, despite his protests, John is standing on his own, even if he is leaning against the wall (why does it always have to be _that_ leg, goddamn it). The club manager calls them a cab, more grateful that nothing more serious happened on the premises than annoyed at the disruption. Sherlock helps John inside, and John can't say that he isn't grateful for Sherlock's steady shoulder under his arm, flush against his side. Sherlock is warm for a change, much warmer than John, which he finds exceedingly strange until the M.D. part of his brain supplies _mild shock_.

The taxi ride is quiet, and not all that long -- the hotel is nearby, walking distance, really, but apparently no one wanted to risk it. Sherlock pays, another shock to the system, tipping the driver generously before he rushes around the cab to help John limp out. Thank god, the hotel doesn't have stairs, and really it's far too opulent for the two of them but Sherlock had insisted, and who was John to argue with a soft bed and luxurious sheets and the biggest bath he ever laid eyes on? And if he had to share a bed with Sherlock, if he'd barely allowed himself to relax the night before for fear of what he might _do_ to his bedmate ( _tug him close, wrap himself around all that creamy skin, bury his face in the exuberance of hair and just breathe him in_ ), well. It was a hefty price tag that he was more than willing to put up for the knowledge that Sherlock was _right there_ , safe for once where John could see him, and even persuaded to sleep for a few hours.

Sherlock braces him until John can drop down onto the bed with a long sigh of relief, letting himself slump over the sheets. Meanwhile Sherlock is a whirlwind, taking John's shoes off despite John's glare, unwinding the scarf from around his own neck, slipping out of his coat, moving frantically as if being made to stop wound be a terrible, terrible thing. John struggles out of his jeans and shirt until he's stripped down to his boxers and feeling, for the first time in the last two hours, just fine. Not anxious, not worried, not turned on as all get-out over his uninterested flatmate, not yearning for something he can't have. Just. Fine. Calm. Content to lie on top of the covers and sigh with relief.

It's just a shame that Sherlock must, as always, shatter that calm. He's hovering; how he thinks John won't notice is a mystery to John himself, but there he is, standing awkwardly to the side as if expecting to be told what to do. John sighs, and doesn't fight the exasperation, or the fondness.

"Sherlock, for goodness' sake sit down. I can't imagine what you think you'll achieve with all this brooding."

Sherlock glowers. "I am not _brooding_."

"I don't care what you are, as long as you get on this bed already."

"You're sure you don't need anything?" Sherlock asks awkwardly.

"Positive."

Sherlock complies after another moment of standing there looking unsure, and flops over on 'his' side of the bed, careful not to jostle John or lie too close to him. Which is pretty counterproductive, since John could really do with some human contact of the non-threatening variety. And fuck it, after everything that John's put up with, Sherlock can just bloody well lie there and be used as a blanket without grumbling about it. Just for a little while.

Sherlock makes a strangled sound when John turns his naked back to him, and shuffles until said back is pressed against Sherlock's chest, a line of delicious warmth all along his spine. Sherlock doesn't make the slightest move, holding himself completely stiff and frozen until John growls impatiently, reaches behind, finds Sherlock's arm and wraps it around himself, all the way over his chest, tugging Sherlock closer until his back is covered, defended, not bared to the room behind him that he can't see. And then he sighs, wiggles a little until he's completely comfortable, and settles with a contented sigh.

After a few minutes of palpable hesitation, John feels Sherlock finally making his decision in the loss of tension, the melting of Sherlock's muscles around him, the tightening of Sherlock's arm around his chest, bringing John more fully into his body. John doesn't think it's wishful thinking when he feels lips press softly against the nape of his neck, a ragged exhale muss the fine hairs; not at all. It dawns on him, for quite the first time, that he might not be as alone in this thing as he'd thought. But there'll be plenty of time for that conversation in the morning; and maybe, if he was very lucky, John could find out whether Sherlock's Blow Job skills pertain to more than just the cocktail. For now, there is only this, and it is enough.


End file.
